


Tradition

by turtlebook



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, F/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlebook/pseuds/turtlebook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone had their little habits. Odd little quirks, developed over time, that somehow became a part of everyday life until it seemed like it had simply always been that way. There didn't need to be a reason, or any particular justification, it was just routine.</p><p>For Effie, sex with Haymitch was a bit like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



> For thinlizzy2:
> 
> Well I took your lovely, simple one-sentence prompt and uh, ran with it. I do hope you enjoy!

Everyone had their little habits. Odd little quirks, developed over time, that somehow became a part of everyday life until it seemed like it had simply always been that way. There didn't need to be a reason, or any particular justification, it was just routine.

For Effie, sex with Haymitch was a bit like that.

He wasn't entirely unattractive. This was something she took note of, along with his glaringly obvious character flaws, the very first year she was District Twelve's escort.

After all, he was 30, and when he was clean, and dressed decently, and wasn't sneering at her, he was rather handsome. She was 24, and liked men, especially the handsome ones, and so she noticed.

It was the third day of the Games, and she was sitting with him on the couch in Twelve's penthouse apartment while the evening's mandatory programming played on the television. She wanted to talk about their remaining tribute; Haymitch apparently wanted to ignore her and drink.

She'd worked with him for a full ten days now and that was nothing new.

There were 11 other tributes still in the arena, so the skinny girl from Twelve didn't feature much in the coverage. Claudius Templesmith, however, made a point of mentioning that Sofia was doing better than expected for her training score of 5.

Effie nodded in satisfaction. "There, sponsors will like that, won't they? You should really make an effort at the lounge tomorrow, don't you think?" She tried to give Haymitch an encouraging smile and got barely a grunt of acknowledgement before he got up to refill his glass over at the bar.

He wasn't entirely unattractive, but he wasn't really that handsome, either, she decided as her eyes followed him across the room.

And yet, there was a certain lazy charm about him she couldn't deny. He had _presence_ , her mother would say. For Effie's mother, the worst thing anyone could be was unremarkable, and if anything was true about Haymitch Abernathy, it was that he definitely wasn't the sort of man one overlooked.

Oh, but he was just so slovenly and crude, inconsiderate and ill-mannered, and not at all the sort she usually went for. Not that she would ever seriously consider going for him, anyway...

Claudius' excited tone drew her attention back to the screen. "Viewers, I'm being told we're going to cross live now to the arena, interrupting our highlights with some on-the-spot action. How exciting, it seems that our two allied tributes from District Six have come upon none other than the scrappy Sofia from District Twelve. Let's see what happens."

Her eyes fixed on the screen, she felt Haymitch wordlessly take his seat next to her again. None of the three children had weapons, but the tributes from Six were both older, bigger, and stronger. The apartment was filled with the sound of screaming as Sofia tried to get away. It didn't last long.

Effie felt something strange, then, some unknown, unfamiliar emotion that she couldn't control, as she sat and watched the two children slaughtering another. Blood bubbled up out of Sofia's throat as she gasped her last word, something that looked like 'momma', and Effie, watching, didn't feel at all the way she usually felt when watching the games.

She felt something, something wretched and clawing in her chest, something like a suppressed scream. It was very distressing.

She would have done anything to stop feeling like that. And well, Haymitch was there.

Whether she found him attractive or unattractive, at that moment it didn't seem important.

So when he laughed bitterly and said, "Well, that's me done for another year," leaned back on the couch and offered her a drink, she accepted.

It wasn't that she intended to sleep with him. One drink became two, became sitting closer and crossing her legs and not bothering to fix her skirt when it rode higher up her legs, became very conscious of his arm casually resting along the top of the couch behind her head, of his hand brushing the back of her neck every now and then.

At some point his eyes became fixed on her thigh, and shortly after that his hand followed.

Somewhere along the way she lost her wig and her shoes, and then, just as easily, her underwear. They never even left the couch. She left him there snoring, the day's highlights still replaying on the screen, as she quietly put herself back together as best she could. She put her shoes on in the elevator and hoped she wouldn't run into anyone she knew before she could make it home. She felt sure anyone looking at her would know what she had just done.

All in all, her first year as an escort had been rather underwhelming. Next year, she decided, would be better.

And hopefully not too awkward; sleeping with a mentor had really not been one of her goals in ascending to her current position.

A year later when the Hunger Games kicked off once more, Haymitch didn't acknowledge what had happened between them at all. She was grateful, thinking he had at least that much discretion. They did have to continue working together, after all.

That second year, their tributes survived the bloodbath, only to both die on day 2 of the Games in separate, unrelated incidents: the girl from venomous spider bites, the boy from an unfortunate encounter with several career tributes.

Haymitch had started in on the hard liquor around the time the spider mutts had shown up; by the time their male tribute bled out a few hours later he was causing a bit of a scene in the middle of Games HQ while the other mentors along with several escorts and other Hunger Games officials looked on with varying degrees of pity, amusement, and disdain.

"Better get him out of here," Chaff said to Effie while Haymitch took a break from his rambling, vaguely seditious monologue to vomit on the floor. She'd never been introduced to District Eleven's mentors, though she knew Chaff by sight, of course. "I'd do it, but I've still got a hand in, over here."

He meant he still had a tribute alive in the arena, she knew that, and yet unbidden, her eyes flicked automatically to Chaff's bare stump protruding from his sleeve. To her mortification, he noticed and laughed.

"That's right, love, just the one. Now go on and escort our friend home."

Which is how she ended up dragging her intoxicated victor back to the twelfth floor apartment while he stumbled along, protesting and complaining the whole way.

He went straight to the wet bar as soon as they stepped out of the elevator.

She followed and took the glass tumbler from his hand as soon as he had filled it, fixing him with a warning look. The look had no effect; he just shrugged and poured himself another, clinking his new glass with the one she had just confiscated.

"Cheers."

Her instinct was to follow the gesture and drink when he did, but she stifled the urge. She was not, she decided, going to do this again. The surprisingly steady, assessing look he was giving her over the rim of his glass was surely a bad sign, and she had no intention of repeating last year's little indiscretion.

"No, thank you," she said, and set the glass down firmly on the sideboard. "You are welcome to it. We've no further official commitments, after all, and so I think I'll be going."

"Yeah, sure, see you next year."

"Yes."

Of course they would be right back here in this apartment, the two of them, a year from now. Well, unless she was promoted, or quit. But she wasn't going to quit. And she doubted they would promote her based on the performance of the four tributes she had escorted thus far.

Yes, she would be back here with him again next year, two more children delivered to the Games.

"Do you speak to their parents when you go home?" she found herself asking, rather than leaving as she intended.

He gave her the most sober look she thought she had ever seen from him. "Sometimes," he said. "If they come to me. Usually not. Can never think of anything much to say once I've brought them their kid back in a box. Why do you ask?"

"I've just never thought about it before."

"Of course you haven't." There were several dozen layers of meaning in his tone and she thought she understood just enough of them to know not to be flattered.

He finished his drink and reached for the one she had just set down. She grabbed it back before she knew what she was doing. He didn't need any more to drink, she told herself, while she - she needed it badly.

She forgot her reservations as she sipped the strong, dark liquor, leaning back against the bar and waiting for the warmth of the alcohol to soothe her unsettled nerves. Haymitch swiped the decanter and paced away from her, across the room over to the window. The streets below, she knew, would be lined with people enjoying the festival atmosphere that always enveloped the city for the duration of the Games.

Up until two years ago, she had shared in the excitement. She still did, of course, though it was all a little different from this side of the proceedings.

Haymitch sighed and lifted the decanter to drink straight from the ornate crystal neck. This was all old hat for him, a fifteen-year veteran. Would she be that much of a lush if she spent so many years on the job? It was such a shame he'd never had a winning tribute, she was sure it would cheer him up. It would certainly boost her spirits; she was feeling almost maudlin, moping like this into her drink. She didn't even _like_ straight spirits.

Haymitch, she decided, was a bad influence. She was already feeling a little tipsy and any moment now she was going to throw herself at him again, and that wouldn't do at all.

"Have you slept with all of your escorts?" she asked, because it was better than standing there thinking about poor little Kailyn falling into that nest of spiders, or remembering how effectively a brisk round of sex with her victor had taken her mind off of things last year.

Haymitch snorted, wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. "The escort before you was male, in case you forgot."

"That's not an answer," she pointed out. "I'm sure Lucius would have been amenable."

Thinking about Twelve's last escort, however, she didn't think he was at all Haymitch's type. And not just because he was a man, although she'd heard district people were more particular about that sort of thing.

"What do you want to hear, that you're the first one to ever turn my head? Because you're that special?"

Her face flushed with embarrassment and anger. "I merely wanted to know if I should call up my predecessors and compare notes."

"You do that, sweetheart."

"You're very rude."

"I try. More?" he offered. Her glass was empty and Haymitch was back at her side.

"Please."

The second drink went down more easily, and the slow warmth spreading through her was as much to do with intoxication as it was other things.

"How many of these does it usually take to get you out of that thing?" he said at one point, tipping a finger at her wig, which she patted reflexively.

"Oh, I shouldn't." But she would, and he looked like he knew it as well as she did.

"You're right. Might be a real woman under there, the shock would be too much."

She scoffed at the teasing. "You saw me without my wig last year."

"You're assuming I remember much of last year."

"I don't think you're ever quite as far gone as you let people believe."

He certainly wasn't the stumbling, incoherent drunk she'd escorted from the viewing centre an hour or so ago. He was sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued and if anything he should be more drunk than he was, not less.

But that was him all over, she realised. He was never quite what she expected, contrary in ways she didn't understand.

"I think," she began, "you -"

"Don't think, sweetheart, it's not in your job description." He took her in his arms, then, as soon as he was finished insulting her, and she let the offended retort die on her lips, let him swallow it along with the whimper that escaped as he kissed her and slid his tongue in her mouth. Because it was what she wanted, anyway.

That year, she went with him to his bedroom where he helped her out of her wig and her dress and the last of her reservations. Somehow she didn't think she would be seeing them again, but as he threw her leg over his shoulder and drove deeper into her she could not find it in herself to mind.

It happened again the year after that and she didn't even pretend to be surprised. Both of Twelve's tributes went down at the cornucopia bloodbath. Not five minutes of the Games had passed, and it was already all over.

"What a fucking waste," Haymitch swore.

She jumped when he threw his glass at the main screen in Twelve's private viewing room, and he turned his hard gaze on her. She pretended not to be bothered by the display.

"Yes, such a waste," she murmured, thinking about all of the effort the stylists and prep teams and she herself had gone to in order to give the children the best chance possible. "All that work."

And now it was all over, before it even began. Haymitch hadn't even had time to get drunk yet today. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing. She was starting to learn that alcohol often softened the edges of his worse traits. Sobriety only refined and sharpened them, made them more likely to cut.

"Work? Yes, after their parents went to all that trouble to raise them - what a shame."

"Well, it is."

"Even sarcasm is wasted on you people." He seemed to look around for his drink for a moment before realising he'd thrown it across the room. With a disgusted huff he got up and went out.

She wasn't inclined to follow him, but remembered the scene from last year and went after him.

She ended up following him all the way back to the training centre, struggling to keep up in her pencil skirt and heels while he strode ahead across the complex on his longer legs, easily weaving in and out of the milling crowds of people watching the exciting first day footage on the towering public screens.

She was slower to show her credentials at the entrance to the training centre building, and only just made it onto the elevator as the doors were closing.

She was out of breath and cross at having to chase him. "You could have waited."

"I didn't ask you to follow me," he snapped back.

"I don't know why you're angry at me."

"I'm not. Here's a tip sweetheart, not everything is about you. You're just another damn cog in the machine."

She crossed her arms. "As if you know anything about machinery."

He laughed at that. She decided she would never understand him at all.

Except she understood that he was upset, and why. No one would have a chance to cheer for the District Twelve tributes this year. No one would remember them now - the ones who fell at the Cornucopia never had a chance to stand out. It was a shame, and of course Haymitch was disappointed.

That was why she didn't blink when he went straight for the liquor when they reached the apartment, and why she took no affront as he gave every indication of ignoring her presence. As he paced and drank, she ignored him right back, fixing herself a cocktail which she sipped genteelly.

When she finished her drink and walked steadily to Haymitch's room, he followed, and she didn't say a word about it.

It became a sort of ritual after that.

First the boy died, then the girl, or the girl followed by the boy. Or they both died within minutes of the Game's starting buzzer. But the point was, they both died. And then she would have a drink with Haymitch and they would sleep together.

They didn't discuss it.

There was nothing really to discuss anyway, it was just one of those things. And as for the rest of the time spent dealing with each other over the course of the Games, he disregarded her as much as ever. This was the exception: perhaps they didn't like each other very much, and certainly they had little in common, but another year had passed and they had taken another pair of children away from homes neither would ever see again. It was enough to forge a bond, however tremulous and unstated it existed between them.

Her fourth year as escort, she had already escorted six children to their deaths, and adding two more to the count didn't make much of a difference, all things considered. It wouldn't have, except that they were so young.

By some miracle they had listened to Haymitch and avoided the cornucopia. He had mentored them together, the 12-year-old boy and 13-year-old girl, both short, bony, and dark-haired. They  found each other and ran for cover in amongst the towering sand dunes, and together lasted 21 hours before they were hunted down by a pack of career tributes who towered over them, heavily armed and merciless.

"I suppose it's always going to be like this, isn't it?" she said that evening as they watched the day's recaps. The little boy and girl from Twelve barely rated a mention. Effie's long, gem-encrusted nails clicked against each other as her fingers twisted restlessly in her lap as on the screen, the Games played on.

Haymitch sounded tired when he answered. "You wanted victors, shoulda been assigned to District Two. Or any of them, really, just not us."

"Well, one has to start somewhere. And it's been four years, I'm bound to be promoted soon."

"Won't that be nice for you."

There was a certain bitterness in his voice she thought might be some indication he would miss her.

She was a very good escort, of course, it would only be natural for him to be disappointed. It made her feel quite fondly towards him as she said, "Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

He brought her a cocktail, her favourite kind, without bothering to ask what she wanted. As he handed it to her, he said, "This... won't help you get promoted."

He was referring to more than the drink, of course, but she simply shrugged. "I'm demonstrating an ability to get along with even the most difficult of people, that's a valuable skill."

"Yes, you're very charming."

"I must be if you don't want me to leave you for another district."

"I don't care about that. You should get out if you can, while you still can."

Despite his words, it didn't stop him undressing her and kissing her skin and they didn't even make it to the bedroom but fell to the floor about halfway there and fucked with abandon on the plush designer rug. In the moment she couldn't have said she would take his advice even if she had the chance.

Afterward, stepping out into the night, free from the responsibilities of a Games Escort for another year, she knew that she would. It was easier to think without his hands on her; of course she still wanted to be promoted. It was just a shame, she thought as she made her way home, because he was actually quite good in bed when he put a little effort in.

Another year passed; no promotion. Effie reaped another two children, one of whom found a patch of quicksand, the other tripping over and falling on his own sharpened stick. Now _there_ was one tribute who would definitely make the highlight reels that year - though perhaps not for the most desirous of reasons.

The fashion that year was for long, full skirts and elaborately-laced bodices and Haymitch swore as he tried to find a way to her skin, giving it up for a loss at some point and just yanking down her underwear and pulling her onto his lap. The layers of voluminous ruffles bunched up between them absurdly, threatening to suffocate them both in a sea of couture. Haymitch’s hands were too busy guiding her hips under her skirts to push them out of the way, while she was more concerned with burying her fingers in his unkempt hair and riding him till she saw stars to worry about how silly he looked through a veil of glittering taffeta.

The following year Effie thought her luck might have changed. One of their tributes lived for six entire days, and even had a few sponsors, it was all very exciting. The boy was 17, tall and quite good-looking. Effie felt he would make a very good victor, or at least one that wouldn't be a disgrace. She could really do something with a victor like that.

He was killed on the sixth day by the girl from Nine, and that was that.

Effie got her own drink that time. Haymitch was too busy sneering at the tears in her eyes to offer. She didn’t really consider simply leaving, though perhaps she should have. She had grown so accustomed to this part of the process, however. She’d been Twelve’s escort for six years now and Haymitch with his rudeness and cutting remarks and occasional dark turns was a permanent fixture in her life. Year in, year out, Games season approached and there he was again. At this point she’d no sooner put aside their little shared tradition than she would her wig collection. 

Well, perhaps that was going a little too far. She liked her wigs much more than she liked Haymitch.

Still, even though he was being mean, she stayed, and drank her cocktail, and then two more, by which time she was being just as mean back. They traded insults for a while, and then he went down on her, and the stubble burn in very sensitive areas was completely worth it.

On occasion, after it was all over for another year, Effie would find herself wondering why they only ever spent that one night together. From the day of the Reaping until they lost their second tribute sometimes two weeks or more would pass. They could perhaps have made better use of the time - even with all the distractions of preparing the children leading up to the first day of the Games. The thought crossed her mind every now and then. For instance, when she passed him in the narrow train corridor, or when she was the last one to leave in the evenings after the stylists had already gone and the children were in bed. When he made some rude remark or other at her expense and she blushed because that was the only way the man knew how to flirt and she didn’t particularly even want compliments from Haymitch. What she _did_ want...

Well, she never pursued those thoughts, anyway.

But that didn’t mean she remained unaffected. She always looked forward to the Games as much as anyone - naturally, the highlight of the year for everyone in Panem - but sometimes she felt an accompanying thrill of anticipation that she couldn’t put down to anything but him.

The year Finnick Odair won the hearts of the nation practically before even setting foot off the train, it was a frustrating exercise for Effie and the style teams to even secure the little amount of attention for their tributes as they usually did. Haymitch was of little help as usual, and with the golden boy from Four in the running no one else stood a chance. It was with a mix of apathy and annoyance that she watched Twelve’s female tribute skewered through her midsection by a trident. 

That year, it was Haymitch pulling her out of HQ by the wrist, cutting her off in the middle of a scathing rant about favouritism and the corruption of the true spirit of the Games.

"Effie," he began, and she wasn’t entirely sure why she was so irate but Haymitch employing that tone with her while calling her by name when he almost _never_ did that certainly wasn’t helping.

"I do not wish to discuss it," she said.

And when they stepped off the elevator into the penthouse she turned to him, his eyes going wide as she pushed him into the wall right next to the closing elevator doors. She went to her knees and opened his pants.

"Right, why waste time," he said, tugging the wig from her head so he could bunch his fingers in her real hair.

Why, indeed.

That year, the drink came after; after he finished in her mouth with a groan. After he pulled her to her feet, slid a hand up her skirt and found her panties soaked through. After he fucked her with his fingers, watching her with a smirk on his face while she trembled against him.

Her knees were still slightly shaky as she made them both a cocktail, and as they drank together in the silent expanse of the empty apartment she knew she wanted to stay right there with him and do it all over again and that this was a dangerous thing to want.

She went home as soon as she finished her drink, and that night the society news caught Haymitch out with Chaff at a nightclub dancing drunkenly with a group of equally intoxicated admirers. Effie called up some friends and went out, too - on the other side of town. It was better this way.

Because it always felt exciting and compelling, being with him in the moment, but afterward the Games ended and he left and she went back to normal life. There was no point wondering if there could be something more. That had always been out of the question.

The truth was, she didn't think about Haymitch that much outside of Games season. There were eleven months out of the year that she happily filled with a social life, events, official appearances, the fashion scene, and she didn't miss him. She had other lovers and a few serious paramours. She wasn't the type to pine away for something she could never have. She would have quit years ago if that had become a problem; she couldn't have lived that way. 

Whatever she felt for him, and she supposed she did feel _something_ for him, she indulged once a year before packing thoughts of him away in the part of her mind reserved for the names of dead children and long train journeys and other annual traditions.

Only once, when she was quite tipsy and still reeling from multiple orgasms, did she venture to ask Haymitch’s opinion on the mater.

"Do you ever wonder -"

"No."

"I didn't finish what I was saying."

"Trust me, I don't."

She thought about that for a moment. The thought floated up from a pleasant haze of booze and sex that Haymitch was, if nothing else, an old hand at self-preservation.

"Neither do I," she agreed, and sat up to begin dressing.

He sat up behind her, carelessly naked amidst the tousled sheets, and helped zip up her dress.

"Well, I'll see you next year," she said.

The next year they won, and that changed everything.

It was always commiseration between them, a release of tension, a way to survive, regroup, and move on.

But then they _won_ , with not one but _two_ victors to bring home triumphant.

The first few days were chaos, Effie had never had a win before and this particular win was without precedent. Everyone wanted to speak to them, both her and Haymitch, they wanted to interview them, film them, invite them to their parties. Haymitch divided his time between the treatment centre where Peeta and Katniss were recovering and his suddenly over-packed schedule - it was all she could do to get him everywhere he needed to be on time, and it was days before they found themselves alone at the penthouse in the small hours of the morning.

He offered her a drink while he was helping himself to one. 

"No, thank you. I think if I have one more drink tonight I'll fall asleep where I stand."

"Come on, it's tradition."

"It's hardly traditional - we've never had anything to celebrate, before." She accepted the drink anyway. It was only polite. "It's all so different. This must be what it feels like to be District Two."

He laughed. He was more relaxed than she'd seen him for days. The hard part was over. "You'd get that promotion now, pretty sure," he said.

"Oh very amusing. Haymitch, don't you realise what you've done? Katniss and Peeta are stars, they're going to be bigger than Finnick Odair. Anyone wanting to replace me as escort will have to pry District Twelve out of my cold, dead hands."

He looked more disturbed at her joke than she thought warranted.

"And just think, you won't have to mentor by yourself next year. I wonder what the twist for the Quarter Quell will be? Oh... You will mentor next year, won't you? I don't think you should leave it all up to Katniss and Peeta for their first time, they will need your help, I'm sure of it, especially for a Quell year - anything could happen."

"Almost sounds like you'd miss me."

"Well, I..." She rolled her eyes at his teasing, and finished her drink in one swallow. "I'm sure we'll manage without you, should you insist on abandoning your brand new victors at the first opportunity."

"Keep your wig on, I'll be here, what else am I gonna do?"

"I wouldn't miss you."

"I know."

"Stay in Twelve and drink yourself to death, it's no concern of mine."

He laughed. "You know, Effie, you're a terrible liar."

She was in far too good a mood to mind anything he said to her tonight. Besides, for all that he was as insufferable as ever, the fact was, she was feeling very fondly towards him these days. "You were brilliant," she said, beaming at him.

"Don't -"

"You saved them, _both_ of them. You'll laugh at me, I'm sure, but I'm very proud of you."

He didn't laugh. Which was a good thing, since she was stepping up close to him and sliding her arms around his neck, and she didn't want to be laughed at.

He retreated, however, and she liked that even less, her arms dropping to her sides. "Listen, that might not be a good idea," he said.

"Why not?"

"There's a lot of attention on all of us just now, and it's only gonna get worse from here on."

"No one is going to know if we sleep together. _Again._ Even if they did, why would they care?"

"They wouldn't have, before. Things are gonna change, you get that, right?"

"Of course they will. I have three victors now, where will I find the time to look after you all?"

It wasn't the first time he looked at her the way he was looking at her right now. As if he was searching for something. Whatever it was he wanted from her, he never seemed to find it. As he said, she was a bad liar, and she had nothing to conceal from him, anyway.

"What is it?" she said, almost afraid of what the answer might be.

He seemed to reach some conclusion, and shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing at all, sweetheart." He reached for her, putting his hands on her waist to draw her towards him.

"You said it was a bad idea."

"Not everything has to change. You and me - it should stay just the same as always."

"Well..."

He kissed her neck. "I know you can't resist someone as brilliant as me."

"I take it all back!"

Despite his words, something did feel different that night. They were celebrating, not commiserating another loss. And Haymitch was hardly drunk at all. She _had_ found him rather attractive with a sense of purpose about him rather than his usual uncaring mien.

"You should win more often. It’s a good look on you," she said.

"The kids won, not me. I couldn’t pull a trick like that out of my sleeve. Now hush, woman, I’m trying to concentrate here."

She didn’t quite believe him or his self-deprecation. And she was right not to, though her insight did little to help her in the end.

A year after that, sitting in a military aircraft, in the midst of being abducted from the Capitol against her will by rebels, Effie turned to Haymitch - Haymitch who had dragged her from Games HQ with a hand clamped around her elbow so hard she could still feel the mark - Haymitch who had been grim-faced throughout the whole of the Games so far but at no point surprised or afraid...

"Haymitch, what have you done?"

"What I had to."

"What you _had to?_ " she said, her voice rising, and she took a deep breath to say more.

"Cinna is dead," he said. "They killed him days ago."

She didn’t say anything after that. She was too afraid of what else he might tell her. She was too afraid that the situation would somehow become even worse than it was - kidnapped by rebels, friends dying and in danger, and the country at war. 

It did get worse. Effie was nothing if not adaptable but District Thirteen was horrible. She hated everything about it, the amenities alone were enough to make her want to kill herself. Though of course she didn't like to complain. 

She persevered and held strong for Katniss and Peeta's sake, and life settled into a kind of mundane, fashionless nightmare from which there was no reprieve. 

Until one night when she came upon Haymitch in the dining hall late enough that the place was all but deserted. He was slouched over a cup of what passed for coffee in Thirteen. She sat down opposite him, eyeing him critically.

"You look tired," she said. "I can't sleep in this place, either. It's like a tomb. When the lights go out at night it's so dark I sometimes feel I could just scream."

"Me, I'm just missing my little nightcaps," he said, giving the mug in his hand a dissatisfied look. 

She leaned towards him and confessed, "If there was any liquor in this place, Haymitch, you would have to fight me for it."

He looked her up and down. "I don't like your chances."

She looked him up and down right back. "I don't like yours. You're old and slow, while I am young and highly motivated."

"Young? That's what you're going with?"

She glared while he just grinned. And for a moment she felt as if she was on familiar ground, a feeling which had been sorely lacking in her life of late. She wanted to hold onto it, prolong it as long as she could.

Sleeping with Haymitch therefore seemed like a good idea. It was certainly easy enough inviting him back to her room and, once they were there, pulling him to her and kissing him and letting him help her out of her clothes. It was just like old times - except that she'd never kissed him without tasting alcohol on his tongue before.

And well, the setting was rather less opulent than was their custom. 

"I hate these beds," she said as they clambered up together in an extremely unsensual manner. "Almost as much as I hate these undergarments," she added as he tugged down her standard-issue panties. "And this," she grabbed the ridiculous woollen hat from his head, "I hate this thing. It makes you look like a vagrant."

He flicked at the elaborate knot of her head-cloth. "Hate to break it to you, but yours makes you look like a washer-woman."

"I don't know what that means but I do not care for your tone." A moment later she pulled the cloth from her head. It would have been silly to keep it on, anyway, at such a time.

She felt oddly exposed, though, as he ran his fingers through her hair and his smile was less mocking than it usually was. He had said he liked her better this way, without any make-up and it was strange to think he might not have been teasing.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate the lighting in this place? It's atrocious."

"The _lighting_."

"It washes everyone out. No one looks good in lighting like this."

She thought he might have complimented her then. A decent man would have.

He didn't, of course. 

He just rolled his eyes and demanded, "There anything you don't hate?"

She stared at him for a moment, and then pressed her mouth desperately to his as she pulled him down on top of her. Because there was only one answer she could think of and she couldn't bear to hear it spoken aloud. Things had changed too much already.

It was much simpler to focus on his big hands and his mouth and the burn of his stubble on her tender skin. The fingers he slid inside her and the sound of approval he made when he felt how wet she was for him. Not to mention the guttural groan that escaped him when he replaced his fingers with his cock.

They rocked together for a long time as the pleasure grew steadily between them. Perhaps it was the sobriety that prolonged the proceedings, or simply that neither of them was keen for it to end. But eventually she couldn't hold it back any longer and she peaked, gasping and clutching at him while his hips rolled into hers just a few more times before he followed.

"I should go," he said after.

She didn't want him to. He had looked so tired, and there was really no need. She stroked his chest. "Just stay. What could it possibly matter?"

He stayed the night, and it really didn't matter.

There was a war on, after all.

Two years after the end of it, Effie found herself back in Victor's Village. A very different place now than the one she had visited with the production team at the start of the victory tour. There were no fences, and many green things growing, and the numerous children who seemed to be running wild about the place didn’t look at her in fear; they didn’t recognise her at all, and she found she didn’t mind the anonymity one bit.

After visiting with Peeta and Katniss for a while, discussing plans for the upcoming national holiday in memorial for those who lost their lives to the Hunger Games - Peeta would be taking baked goods to the children’s home, Katniss would be staying indoors and avoiding people - Effie thanked them for afternoon tea, went outside and followed the sound of noisy poultry around to Haymitch’s back porch.

"Well, look at you," he said, squinting up at her from the steps.

Post-war fashions were not as elaborate or stylish as they had one been. Effie had never found herself returning to her wig-donning days, and her shoes were very nearly sensible. Haymitch had once told her he liked her better this way; she was still rather on the fence. Especially about the shoes.

Still, he did seem at least a little pleased to see her. Something must be working for her.

"Nice ducks," she said as she sat down beside him.

"Ducks? Ducks swim and go ‘quack’. Those look like ducks to you?"

She shrugged. "Yes. They do look like ducks."

"They’re geese. And you’re annoying."

"Which are the ones that lay golden eggs?"

"None. Here in the real world, they just crap everywhere and lay regular eggs that make a hell of an omelette."

"No, I’m sure it was geese. In the mutt zoo, when I was a little girl, I saw geese that laid golden eggs." She frowned. "Or was it ducks?"

Haymitch sighed heavily. "What are you doing here?"

"I think you owe me a drink. We missed a few there. Perhaps it’s time we... caught up."

She watched the large grey and white birds wandering around in their pen at the end of the yard, stretching sharp beaks at the end of their long necks, feeling Haymitch’s eyes on her, regarding her for a long time.

Then a bottle of liquor appeared before her face. She took it. 

So much had changed. So much had been left in the past, where it belonged, but not everything. Some traditions were worth keeping.


End file.
